Chez Murdoch: Edible Arrangements
by RuthieGreen
Summary: How do our heroes, William, Julia and George spend their down time away from work? Probably thinking about work... Short one-shot set in 1904. Thank you Maureen and the show writers. Show-runner PM: all is (temporarily) forgiven...


_**Edible Arrangements**_

…." _ **No!**_ " He took a breath, then answered more quietly. "Er…No. No thank you doctor. I will pass at joining you for supper." Constable George Crabtree tried not to react with alarm at the kind offer of a meal from his generous hostess. _Food_ was suddenly the last thing on his mind.

"George, your technique is quite good! On this one, the stomach contents are recorded with excellent contrast." Dr. Julia Ogden pointed to a photograph of the corpse's dissected innards with her fork tines after biting off a morsel of her pot-pie crust, then sent the side of her utensil into the top of the pastry, making a deep gash into the center, spilling meat, vegetables and sauce over the side of her dish. "And on this one, you can really see the tearing detail in the edges of that wound right here where the avulsion occurred." She turned to her husband with a gleam in her eye. "This is a much better than merely sketches or a written summary," she said delightedly. Several additional photographs were arrayed on the dining table between her plate and that of her husband, Detective William Murdoch, allowing for enhanced discussion of the case while sharing an evening meal.

George stood between them, placing the results of his afternoon's work on the table, one image at a time. His detective had come up with a method with which to systematically document a crime scene and a set of key camera angles to record. As coroner, Dr. Ogden also created a check-list of images she wished to have taken of the corpse and autopsy.

Detective and doctor convinced the powers that be in the Toronto Constabulary and Inspector Brackenreid in particular, that with the Bertillion anthropomorphic method having been finally discredited in a 1903 case in Leavenworth, Kansas, known as "the West Brothers," and the preference of the fingermark identification method for police work being institutionalized, there was a place for additional scientific documentation, in this case, _photography,_ when it came to recording an investigation. The inspector agreed to support the time and the cost of complete photographic evidence on a trial basis, while George had succumbed to flattery of his photography skills and agreed to go along on the next murder in station No. 4's jurisdiction to take each of the required photographs, then develop and print them in a standard size. He managed to admire his handiwork and feel some pride in his accomplishment: each photograph included a ruler to give scale and a marker referencing when and where the photograph was taken, exactly as Detective Murdoch specified.

Looking at the glossy sheets of stiff photographic paper though, he also felt the bile rise in his gullet and needed to shift his regard to the weather outside the window for relief.

"George?" the detective announced to curb the apparently wandering attention of his constable. "These are well done indeed. The brain matter is differentiated from the blood." He smiled back at his wife while finding and eating a bite of cauliflower. "Did you look at the colour printing process monograph I put on your desk? Can you imagine how much better these would be if they were in true-life colour?"

 _Imagine, indeed_. George was gratified by the praise doctor and detective were showering on him; unfortunately in his enthusiasm he'd forgotten how much he disliked, nay, was _revolted_ , by the process of examining the great destruction wrought upon human flesh by the work of other humans. His tour as acting detective brought him closer to the… Meat?...Guts? …Bowels? …of an autopsy, and while he passed the test back then, of not losing his stomach in the process, he did not enjoy the recollection.

He was also uneasy with his choices of metaphor, unable it seemed, to escape the overpowering draw of the grotesque butchery he had immortalized.

This particular unfortunate's remains were found by the railroad tracks, most probably hit by a train. The impact did horrible, mangling things to the man which Detective Murdoch attempted to explain as because the human body consisted of essentially a sack of water encased in skin, accompanied by a formula about mass and acceleration that made the constable's eyes glaze over. In George's mind, _nothing_ sufficiently explained how the body looked like it had veritably _burst_ apart, the man's limbs twisted, his bones dislocated and his body ground to a pulp under the wheels of the train cars. George thought the sights and smells were overwhelming and he knew it would be a while before these very images he'd taken and printed were erased from his rather vivid imagination.

Ordinarily an accident would have been the most obvious cause of death, especially considering the staggering amount of alcohol discovered in the victim's system. That was, until ropes used to bind the man's hands and feet were discovered.

 _Good Lord! It was bad enough seeing it all_ **once** _\- to record the carnage in full colour for all eternity was a ghastly idea._ George continued to show the pictures one after the other... this time of the victim's crushed face with its eye-ball bulging out of the socket and lolling on a broken cheek, shuddering as the detective speared a pearl onion and directed it to his mouth and bit down.

The juxtaposition of onion and eyeball was too much. George swallowed hard to keep from embarrassing himself as his guts clenched acidly and his bland luncheon of cheese and grapes threatened to reappear. He looked rather longingly at the sideboard containing a decanter of sherry and one of whisky belonging to the lady of the house, understanding perhaps why Inspector Brackenreid kept his own office stocked with Scotch and Dr. Ogden (he knew for certain, having been offered a slug of it on occasion) did the same. A drink-anything to dull the memory of what they witnessed. George had observed over the years that the detective did his sworn duty regarding witnessing the evidence gleaned from the crime scenes and autopsy, and while the man never shirked, he also never seemed to relish the exploration of the body the way his wife did. George had no idea what the detective used for coping, other than prayer and perhaps physical exercise—or perhaps that was what drove him to create such wonderful devices for investigation that kept him at arms-length from the bloodier, more noisome end of things.

 _That_ _, and care for his beautifully tailored suits…_ George knew his sense of levity was a mask for his distress.

As bad as the pictures of body parts had been, Dr. Ogden insisted on a… _full…_ physical recording of the poor victim's remains, since his corpse was battered beyond any easy recognition. George looked away as he placed the remaining images on the table—including the man's pelvis and genitals, which were, oddly, the one intact chunk of flesh. Dr. Ogden looked at it with no more nor less interest than she did any of the other pictures; but the constable saw Detective Murdoch averted _his_ eyes as well, the two men crossing gazes uncomfortably. The detective pursed his lips and glowered. George just shrugged.

"Yes, well. George these will be quite valuable." Detective Murdoch cleared his throat and shuffled through the photographs to select one particularly fine representation of the victim's tattooed shoulder. "Use this one to try and get an identity. Julia? You said it appeared to have been done recently?"

George heard the couple banter on about the case, their theories, and fairly swoon over the details captured by the photographs. He took a step back and sidled over to the drinks, getting silent permission from the doctor and pouring himself a stiff one, emptying the glass quickly and then going for another. He stole a glance back to the doctor and detective, at the moment looking for all the world as if they were pouring over vacation souvenirs. Looked in fact, like a normal, very ordinary married pair eating supper, their dark and light heads tilted towards each other intimately.

 _They are nothing of the kind_ , thought George, as he noticed the effects of the whiskey burning down his esophagus, hitting his gut and blood stream. _Hardly 'ordinary', and I am not sure what to make of the concept of 'normal' either as it applies to police work in general and these two specifically._

His mind traveled to the morgue earlier today when Dr. Ogden accepted the corpse…or rather when she took delivery of thirteen separate canvass-wrapped parcels which represented what the officers collected of the victim's remains. The task has been brutal, sending at least one of the lads to miserable retching—which made the rest of them even more nauseous. They did the grim duty as quickly as possible, grumbling the whole while that it was queer how one Constable First Class Henry Higgins managed to absent himself just in the nick of time.

Out of respect for the deceased, the good doctor commandeered four gurneys upon which to lay the body parts so that reassembly did not have to be accomplished on the floor. George was asked to photograph front and back of each piece, while Dr. Ogden identified what it was and Miss James recorded the details. They were trying to figure out if the man was already dead when the train hit, and it was tedious, hard going. George prayed the victim had been long gone to his Maker so as not to suffer the flying apart of his body while he was still sensible.

In the process, George found himself transported to thinking of Mary Shelly's novel...of Dr. Ogden as a female Victor Frankenstein, assembling the 'Adam of her labours' as the bloody corpse pieces, the sections of flesh so pale and drained of blood they looked artificial or surreal as they were washed and slowly pieced together. It made sense to him that he'd think of another writer and another novel, being a writer himself. He tried to figure out if _he_ was Captain Robert Walton narrating the tale and if Miss James was some sort of student or lab assistant from the story. It seemed to fit—especially since Dr. Ogden was an expert chemist and was Dr. Frankenstein...and just like Victor Frankenstein, her final creation was horrible indeed: "…the hideous phantasm of a man stretched out," in Mrs. Shelly's apt description.

George wondered sometimes why he himself did not write in the horror genre or even the detective- novel vein, considering Mr. Twain's advice to "write what you know." Police work certainly brought him to the horrors of humanity, even if not to the horror of war. However, he preferred imaginative adventure with the "good guys" winning in the end. _Not so different from police work, after all_ , he reckoned. _But I really enjoy adventure stories, something set in the fantastic future when humans had evolved beyond our current understanding, or perhaps in the swash-buckling past on the high seas in some exotic locale…._

His mind was drifting away to his current work in progress, trying to decide which path to adventure Jumping Jack would take (his publisher demanding an immediate follow up story having sweetened the deal with a healthy advance.) George fantasized about what he was going to put the money towards. _Perhaps a new expensive pen or new typewriting machine?_ …when he heard his name called rather sharply. "What…?" he mumbled, looking innocently over to the table, not sure if it was a male or female voice that spoke his name.

"I said we have an idea, George." Dr. Ogden's eyes glittered and her voice went up in that way he noticed she does when she is trying to be persuasive. All day long in the morgue, Dr. Ogden's voice had been low, controlled, and matter of fact while giving her assessment of the victim's remains. A shiver went down his back. "Yes?" his voice was suddenly dry. _When these two started brainstorming ideas, look out…_

Detective Murdoch had a large smile on his face. "As wonderful as these are, I do wish they were in colour." He tapped his finger on the stack of pages containing the visual record of finding the body and the autopsy results, "But…what if next time we used moving picture film? That way Dr. Ogden and I could watch the proceedings in an approximation of real time. It would be ever so much easier to set it up to view while we ate supper…."

As the detective droned on about the screen, projector and electrical requirements, Dr. Ogden sliced into her dessert—a berry tart which oozed a thick red sauce. That was it…George's body suddenly heated him into a fine sweat and he felt faint. He rapidly put his tumbler aside and went over to the window and yanked the sash open, hoping to get some air and steady himself.

"George...? _George?"_ Came the doctor's worried voice from behind him. "What are you looking at? Is something amiss?"

George took in a breath. "Err…yes, doctor. I'm quite fine…quite fine. I just thought I saw that peregrine falcon that has been after all the city's pigeons, right outside your window. You have been bird watching, have you not?" He leaned out further to pretend to look around, trying not to gasp. _Oh, God! Unbelievable! Who in their right mind would ever sit and try to eat a meal while watching an autopsy? For work or their leisure time?!_

Detective Murdoch continued his dissertation about using not merely still photographs in full colour, but animation via moving picture film, unaware that George was struggling to remain upright and decent after hearing what he thought was a ghoulish proposal. Dr. Ogden did not comment on his pasty skin or damp brow either, enthralled with looking out the window to glimpse the non-existent falcon with her binoculars. George backed away towards the door and retrieved his helmet, hopeful he could make his escape out of their presence without humiliating himself.

"Well, sir, doctor—I will be on my way. Long day tomorrow and all that." He reached for the door knob with sweaty fingers.

"George! How soon do you think you can requisition an action camera and film and start using it? I think you will need some help, won't you?" the detective inquired, fanning out the photographs on his dining table, so absorbed in solving the problem of better evidence he did not detect the quaver in George's voice nor the desperation to be gone.

George paused for a moment and then set a grim smile. _It will take some doing_ , he realized, _but it is going to be so worth it!_ "Sir. I have an idea about that. May I have some of the photographs back, for reference purposes you see, if you are done with them for the evening?"

"I suppose so. Which ones do you want?" was his answer.

 _Henry is about to get his comeuppance,_ he gloated as he went down the stairs _._ By the time he hit the street he had an additional, thought: _I just might have an idea for a new, psychological thriller about a mad genius who eats his victims as if they are a gourmet meal….!_

 **# # #**

 **A/N: I was going for funny/gross…did I hit the mark? This is what happened when I started watching** _ **Bones**_ **again. It comes on, for better or worse, at supper time….**

 **Thanx to EnlightenedSkye and RomanticNerd for allowing me to borrow their literary references. I think George would be pleased.**


End file.
